


So Tell Me. . .

by blankety blank (doll_revolution)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Humor, M/M, None - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 07:03:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/795220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doll_revolution/pseuds/blankety%20blank
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone's favorite scenario!  Jim and Blair and trapped in a refrigerator.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Tell Me. . .

## So Tell Me. . .

by Blankety

Pet Fly and Paramount own these characters, and I do not. Make of that what you wish.

Alyjude told me I should post this, and since I worship her as the goddess she is, I posted it. Any complaints, talk to her. <bg>

Pretty much pre-slash, and the PG is for language, which is not that bad anyway.

* * *

Jim Ellison slapped his hand against the wall and sighed. "Well, Stan, this is another fine mess you've gotten us into." 

Blair Sandburg whirled around, hair flying. "Me? I've gotten us into?" He was so agitated he was almost sputtering. Jim swore he could see sparks pouring from Sandburg's ears. /Maybe I can. The brain has electricity, doesn't it? I'll have to ask Blair sometime./ 

His musings were interrupted by a finger poking him in the chest. Hard. He looked down into furious blue eyes. "How about I recap the situation, Jim, huh?" Another poke. 

"Who made me go to Wonderburger, when we had agreed on Thai? Huh? And who was in such a hurry that he couldn't wait in the drive-through?" 

Poke. Poke. 

"And who asked the cashier why his uniform was inside out? And who was it, Jim, who was it that dropped his goddamned gun again when that guy leaped the counter and tried to kill us? Huh, Jim? Who was it? 'Cause it sure as hell wasn't me!" 

Poke. Poke. POKE. 

"Calm down, Sandburg! You know I dropped the gun because I was trying-" 

"Trying to be an idiot, that's what you were trying to do! Believe it or not, I didn't need your help to duck behind the condiment counter. Some guy screaming 'Die, pigs die!' at me, I get out of their way, all on my own. I don't wait for you to push me away!" 

Jim opened his mouth, but Blair poked him in the chest again. "And now we're locked in the freezer, no-one knows we're here, we're going to freeze to death, we're going to suffocate, we're going to die, and all because you, stupid buttery-fingered you, couldn't wait ten more minutes to buy some lard-filled nasty-ass burger!" 

Jim sighed as Blair began pacing frantically. /The man has the energy of a power plant./ He grabbed Blair's shoulder and shoved him down on to a case of lettuce. "Sit down and breathe, Drama Queen." Blair popped up, furious, and Jim shoved him down again, "I said breathe!" 

Jim waited until Blair's heartbeat began approaching normal levels. He squatted down and looked Blair in the eye. "Okay. One: my truck is parked in the lot. When we don't come back from lunch, I'm pretty sure Simon or Brown or someone will find it quickly. Two: this is a refrigerator, not a freezer. The temp's set to about 35F. We'll get pretty cold, but we won't freeze to death. Three: this thing is ventilated. There's plenty of air." 

He patted Blair on the knee. "See? No freezing, no suffocating, no death. Life is good." 

Blair looked at him as if he had grown another head. "'Life is good'? Jim, we're locked in a refrigerator at Wonderburger. That so does not meet my definition of the good life." 

"Fine, then. Life is okay." 

"Whatever, man." 

Jim stood up and nudged Blair over, so he had space to sit on the crate as well. They both sat quietly, the silence somewhat strained. It began to wear on Jim, who knew deep in his heart, no matter what else happened, this was not his fault. Finally, heaving a mental sigh, he turned to Blair. 

"So tell me, Sandburg-" He was interrupted as Blair turned to face him, eyes aglow. "Cool, man!" 

"Cool? I haven't even said anything yet!" 

"No, but you're going to, right? This is going to be one of those 'Since we're going to die anyway I might as well ask all the personal questions that I've always wanted to ask before but was too afraid to' things, isn't it? We're going peel away the layers and walls that we hide our feeling behind and really get to know one another, right?" Blair stopped, took in Jim's expression of complete and utter horror, and sighed. "Guess not." 

"Christ, what is wrong with you Sandburg? Dying would be more fun and a lot less painful! And anyway, you're not listening: we're not going to die, we're just going to get very, very cold." 

Blair waved his hand. "That's irrelevant." 

"Dying is irrelevant?" 

"To the situation, yeah. We're trapped, we could die. Dying is implicit in the scenario, so therefore we act as if the possibility is the reality." 

Jim blinked. His head hurt. He pointed an accusing finger at Blair. "You make my head hurt! I want to be trapped with Simon. He talks about normal things. Like fishing. And beer." Jim smiled happily, thinking about beer. 

Blair rolled his eyes, and whacked Jim on the arm. "Whatever, man. What was your question?" 

Jim rubbed his arm. "Question?" 

"Yeah, your question. You remember: you, me, the lettuce, 'So tell me Sandburg'. That question." 

"Well, maybe I don't want to ask it now." 

"Well, maybe I don't want to kick you in the ass either, but I will! Just ask the damn question!" 

"Fine!" Jim crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. "So tell me, Sandburg, how do you manage to look so good all the time, wearing those god-awful clothes?" 

Blair opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, looking remarkably fish-like. Finally he managed, "You think I look good all the time?" 

"The whole state thinks you look good all the time, Sandburg, and that's not the point. The point is: how is it you look good in ugly clothes?" 

"My clothes are not ugly!" 

Jim just raised an eyebrow. 

Blair looked down: green and blue flannel, gray Henley, white t-shirt, khakis,. . .hm, maybe Jim had a point. "Okay, so they're not the most stylish-" 

"They're butt-ugly and you know it, Chief! I've seen better-dressed winos! So how come you still look good?" 

"You really want to know?" 

"I asked, didn't I?" 

"Okay. It's attitude and perception." 

When a minute had passed and it became obvious that Blair was not going to elaborate, Jim sighed and scrubbed his hands across his face. "Look Sandburg, it hasn't been a good day, okay? I didn't get my burger and I was locked in a fridge by a 14-year-old gang banger with a really realistic water pistol. Please don't make me work for this." 

Blair's eyes widened and then he snickered. "A water pistol?" 

Jim flushed to the tips of his ears and stayed silent. 

Blair laughed even harder. Jim suffered stoically, waiting for Blair to calm down and wipe his eyes. And stop snorting. And pointing. And choking. 

"You finished, Chief, or do you need to mock some more?' 

"No, man, I'm fine." Snort. "I'll try and save the rest for the next Poker Night." 

There were times when Jim didn't understand why he just didn't kill Blair. He'd been a Ranger, he knew lots of ways. This was one of those times. "Answer the damn question before I kill you!" 

Blair wiped his eyes one last time, pushed his glasses up, and assumed what Jim liked to think of as his "Sexy Professor" look. "Okay, attitude. You remember back in high school, you'd get a zit on your face and your dad would say 'If you just ignore it, everyone else will.'?" He looked consideringly at Jim. "Bad example. I don't really see William talking to you about bodily functions." 

"You're right, he didn't, Sally did, and I thought it was stupid then, and it's stupid now! How could anyone not notice, it was huge and pus-filled and disgusting and-" He broke off as Blair raised his hands and leaned away. 

"Whoa, whoa, man TMI, okay? All right. Another example, okay? Um, in the Army, were you ever scared before a mission?" 

"What?" 

"Were you ever scared before a mission? It's not that hard a question, Jim." 

"What does that have to do with your clothes? I swear, Sandburg, sometimes-" 

"Just answer the question, Jim." 

"Of course I was scared! I'm not an idiot!" 

"But you sucked it up and went ahead with the mission anyway, right?" 

"Yeah." 

"Why? Why not just be scared and show it?" 

"Because I had men under my command, Sandburg. And a commander who's shit-scared and showing it does not have many successful missions." 

Blair smiled. "So you just pretended to be brave, and your men believed you were brave, and everything was fine?" 

"Yeah." 

"Because there's no real difference between acting brave and being brave, is there?" 

"No." 

Blair raised his hands in a 'volia' gesture. "Just like there's no real difference between acting as if you're attractive in your clothes and being attractive in your clothes." 

Jim covered his eyes. He could feel the beginnings of a headache. "I'm begging you here, Chief. Don't answer the question any more." 

His pleas were in vain. Blair stood up and began pacing, his hands moving so quickly it seemed as if he would take flight at any moment. "Okay, that's it for attitude. Perception's a little different. Another question: do you have any ugly friends? 

"I'll answer that for you: No, you don't. And you know why? Because you like them and you're used to them." 

Jim just stared at Blair without blinking. His headache was slowly but surely building its way to a migraine. "Really, I don't want to know. Let's just sit here quietly, okay?" 

Blair continued pacing. "No, no. You asked and I'm going to answer. What about that Mayan mask I hung up? Is that ugly?" 

"It's different, but not ugly." 

"That's not what you said when I brought it home, remember? 'Jesus, Sandburg, that thing will peel the paint from the walls!' Remember, Jim?" 

"Well, I'm used to it now! I kind of like it!" 

Blair nodded. "Right, right! Just liked you're used to me in these clothes. So even though they're ugly, I'm not ugly in them." 

Jim leaned his head against the wall. "What are you saying, Sandburg?" 

"I'm saying I look good in these clothes because I act as if I look good in these clothes, and they're what you're used to seeing me in. You'd think I looked funny in a good suit, 'cause I'd be out of my normal setting." 

Jim's eyes snapped open. "That's what you're saying?" 

"That's what I'm saying." 

"Then why the hell didn't you say so in the first place? You gave me a headache with all your weird 'perception, attitude' babble." Jim's voice took on a mocking tone. "'Are your friends ugly?' 'Were you scared before a mission?' Why not just poke a needle through my head and be done with it?" 

Blair grinned and flipped him off. He heaved a sigh and sat down next to Jim again. The lettuce crate creaked ominously. "How long have we been here?" 

"Twenty minutes. And shut up." 

Blair sighed. "This is so not how I expected to spend my last minutes on earth, you know. Talking about my clothes." 

"These aren't our last minutes on earth, Chief. Although they might be yours if you don't shut up!" 

"I always thought, I don't know, I'd be boffing like a bunny; you know: go out with a bang!" He turned a pleading glance toward Jim. "Why aren't we boffing like bunnies, Jim?" 

Jim looked at him in astonishment. "Jeez, Sandburg, I'd like to think that when I have sex with you, it's not because my only other option is death!" 

Blair was quiet for a long moment, and then he smiled, slow and sultry. "You said 'when'." 

"I know what I said." 

They stared at each other, blue eyes meeting blue eyes, a feeling that had been building and growing for four years welling up between them, warming them both like the dawning of a new and glorious day. Jim slowly reached a hand and quietly, gently laid it against Blair's cheek. 

At that moment two things happened: an electricity jolted between them, a final surge of the connection that had always bound their souls together; and Simon Banks broke down the door of the refrigerator with a fire axe. 

He stood in the doorway, moving his unlit cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. Finally, he spoke: "A water pistol Jim?" 

Blair started snorting again, and Jim felt his headache return with a vengeance. 

Some days just sucked from the get-go. 

* * *

End So Tell Me. . . by Blankety: blankstreet@hotmail.com

Author and story notes above.

  
Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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